


relay

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean loses a bet; for two weeks, Sam's in charge, and he's got some ideas of how to spend the time.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: zmediaoutlet [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/587392
Comments: 36
Kudos: 184





	relay

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be an smpc fill, but I failed to turn it on time and it ended up being too long, anyway. Sorry about that, friends. :/ Still, I hope it's satisfying despite that.

And the thing is, it wouldn’t be nearly so satisfying if Dean weren’t the sorest loser in the world.

"Shut up," Dean says.

Sam grins at him. "I didn’t say anything."

He gets a wildly bitchy fake smile in response and Dean folds his arms over his chest, glaring out the passenger window. Sam relaxes into his side of the bench seat, enjoying the ride. He doesn’t drive that often—honestly, it’s not like he cares much either way—but when one wins a bet with this sweet a forfeit, one ought to take full advantage.

That said, it was a dumb bet, with a dumber argument that precipitated it. They hadn’t heard anything from Bobby about Eve, and they kept running into these small-time barely-anything jobs that were hardly worth the time to stay in town to fix them, and Dean was trying not to say anything but Sam could tell that he was fretting about the wall in Sam’s head, penning back all the awful he was terrified of Sam remembering. Sam’s stopped rolling his eyes about it, seeing how panicked Dean’s been the few times a memory _has_ busted through, but he didn’t quite see the point of worrying. It’d come, or it wouldn’t. There was no logic to freaking out before anything even went wrong. Anyway, all he'd remembered was some of the soulless stuff, not so much—whatever might've happened in the cage. But, that was Dean, when Sam’s safety was in question—Sam’s been smothered in it enough times to have a certain amount of equanimity about the whole thing—and Dean was in full fretful mode when he made them leave another town that Sam sort of remembered, from whatever traveling he’d done with their cousins.

So, Sam had been a little annoyed, even if he’d agreed to let Dean keep him away from the past. So—next town, next job, and Dean had been on edge enough that they’d started picking at each other over what the case was going to be. Witch or demon, with a few dead and the details nasty, and Dean kept pulling toward evidence Sam was sure was nothing—and not wanting to let Sam go off to check on a single witness alone—and Sam finally put his foot down and said, _dude, I bet you anything it’s a demon_ , and Dean raised his eyebrows and said, _oh, anything?_ and then, well.

"Still can’t believe that friggin’ demon went down that easy," Dean mutters, shifting his weight on the seat.

"Just because it's a demon doesn't make it smart," Sam says. He flicks Dean's thigh, and gets a startled look. "Hey, so how far does this go? Say it for me."

Dean sighs. "You're such a bitch," he says, withering, but he parrots it dutifully: "For two weeks, anything you say goes." He frowns, then, and eyes Sam up and down. "But you're not—I mean, Sam."

Sam basks in it, for a warm moment. There hasn't been much that's been fun, lately. He's got to take his wins where he can get them. "Yes, Dean?"

Dean mouths it back at him, sarcastic, but he does actually look sort of worried when Sam glances at him. "You're not gonna try to make me… I don't know, I'm not like selling the Impala and getting some plastic piece of crap or anything, okay. There's gotta be limits."

"Limits, huh?" Sam says. He indicates to get onto the offramp, guiding the Impala along easy in icy afternoon. It does drive smooth—and he wouldn't get rid of the car, ever, but there's still some room to screw with Dean. "Weren't you the one who was threatening to make me shave my head if you won?"

"Yeah, but—Sammy," Dean says, half-laughing, nervous, and Sam waves a hand.

"Relax," he says, and pulls into the truckstop he'd been aiming for. Fuel, for them and for the car. He parks at the gas island and turns in his seat, giving Dean his full attention. "Seriously, dude, you think I want to sell the car?"

Dean shrugs, still looking jumpy. "I don't know. When you were a soulless dickbag you drove this douchey fake-muscle thing. It was embarrassing, man. But maybe that's what you're really after! I don't know." Sam's eyebrows feel like they're climbing into his hairline and Dean narrows his eyes, thumps him in the arm. "Shut _up_."

Sam smiles, but he doesn't bother saying it again. "I'm not going to sell the car, you weirdo." He chews on his lip a little, looking at Dean steady, and under the look Dean's cheeks slowly seep up to pink. Yeah, that's more what Sam was thinking, but still, it doesn't hurt to be a little generous. "Two weeks, you've got to do what I say. But, okay, I'm not a fascist. You get… let's say, three vetoes. You don't want to do something, you get to say no."

Dean sucks his cheek in on one side, thinking about it. "Okay," he says, drawing it out. He squints at Sam. "And—Sam," he says, his voice so serious that Sam's caught off-guard. "Not—nothing to do with your wall, okay. I'm not joking, this isn't—I'm not talking about a veto or anything. We're not going to do something that'll put you in danger, so don't even try."

He's giving Sam a direct look right back, and not the fun kind. Sam sighs. Figures, this is what Dean was actually trying to get at. "I already promised," he says. He grips Dean's arm, shakes him a little. "Stop worrying."

As if. Dean shakes his head, echoing Sam's thought, but then breaks Sam's grip on his arm and whacks him, easy. Tension broken. "So. Three vetoes." He licks his lips. "What if I break the bet?"

"What, you want me to spank you or something?" Sam says, and Dean's ears go pink, even as he waggles his eyebrows like a moron. Sam rolls his eyes, and finally turns the car off. "Well, one, you're not going to break it, because you're a Winchester and we don't do that kind of thing, do we. I remember seventh grade."

"Don't bring up Shreveport, man," Dean says, but he follows Sam up out of the car, and looks speculative, even as he folds his arms over his chest and stamps his boots in the cold. Why they came to New York in February, Sam has no idea.

"Two," Sam says, unscrewing the gas cap, "it's going to be fun. Why would you want to break it?"

"Fun," Dean says, dubious.

"Super fun," Sam says, and nods at the c-store. "Now. Why don't you go put forty bucks in, and then get us a table in the restaurant."

Dean opens his mouth, and closes it. He usually gets Sam to pay so he can dick around babying the car, and they both know it. "Sneaky, Sammy," he says, but shrugs. "You want to freeze your ass off out here, be my guest."

He ambles across the parking lot, boots crunching in the driven-over, slushed-out snow. Sam watches him go, still satisfied. So, they're kicking around, and they've got no idea what's going on with Heaven, and who knows what weird monsters and dangers are going to come their way. Been long enough since they've had something dumb and easy to focus on. He grins when the pump clicks on, ready to use, and starts fueling up. He wonders when he'll get Dean to use his first veto.

*

Whatever worries Dean had had—and Sam's pretty sure he wasn't all _that_ worried, considering—Sam thinks he's pretty well quashed them by the end of the first day. He keeps it easy, stuff they were mostly going to do anyway. They have lunch in the slightly grody restaurant at the truckstop, and he orders for both of them mostly as a joke—buffet, for both of them, and two coffees, and Dean squints at him with suspicion but Sam lets him load his plate by himself, and sure enough, when they get back to the table Dean has a mini-mountain of fried crap. "Can I have a fry?" Sam says, and takes one without waiting for a response. It's not bad, considering it came from a hotbar.

He gives the keys back to Dean, but retains his control over the tapedeck, and keeps it turned to a reasonable volume on some of their least-played tapes. One of the first advantages of this bet: some friggin' variety. "Let's head south," he says, slouching down for a snooze, and Dean nods and points the Impala toward less-icy climes, and when Sam wakes up they're in Harrisburg and it's already dark, and Dean says, "What now, boss?"

He sounds relaxed, easy. Sam stretches, says, "Boss, I like that," and Dean blows a raspberry wet enough to make Sam laugh. "Yeah, okay," he says, and picks out a motel. Clean and boring, not Dean's usual preference, but Sam's hoping for sheets that aren't scary. "Ask for a king room," he says, before Dean can get out of the car, and watches Dean bite his lip and nod, in the half-fluorescent light of the parking lot. They don't, usually, mostly out of habit. Well—that's going to change, at least for a few weeks.

The room really is clean. "I didn't know they made this many shades of beige," Dean says, dropping his duffle on the table.

The bed's huge, and soft when Sam sits on it. This is going to be good. "Hey, Dean," he says, and Dean looks up from rifling through his socks or whatever he's doing, and then his face resettles when he remembers. Sam grins. "Why don't you go and grab us some dinner?"

"It's cold as hell, man," Dean says, with a tiny note of wheedling. He really is easy. "Can't we order pizza or something?"

"You can always use a veto," Sam says, deliberately serene. Dean plants his hands on his hips, purses his mouth. "If you don't, then we're having beef and broccoli, and ma po tofu, and garlic bok choy."

Dean stares at him, and looks like he's seriously considering it. "You're the worst," he says, finally, and snatches the keys up again. "You want anything to drink with that, boss?"

Sam takes a shower while he's gone, and he's in sweatpants flipping through the local TV options when Dean stomps back into the room, in a swirl of cold wind. "I hope your cookie has one of those b.s. fortunes in it," he says, his ears red for un-fun reasons, but he sits down and eats his vegetables, even if he makes sad noises when it comes to the tofu. "Too spicy for you?" Sam says, and Dean stabs the next piece with his chopsticks.

When dinner's over he sends Dean to take his own shower, and when he comes out steamed-pink and shining Sam says, "Put on that Ozzy t-shirt and boxer briefs," which Dean sighs and does, and then Sam says, "Get in bed," and Dean leers hopefully but Sam only tugs the covers up to their hips and says, "Watch the movie, buddy," and Dean stares at him, his hand frozen halfway to where he was definitely planning to grope Sam's thigh.

"The worst," Dean repeats, and Sam elbows him, says, "Shh, I want to hear," even if the only thing he could find worth watching was _Tombstone_ , which they've both seen about thirty times.

Dean exudes vague outrage until roughly the part where Curly Bill starts shooting up the opium den and Earp shows up to arrest him, at which point he predictably whoops and echoes Val Kilmer's _you call that shooting?_ , and that means he's about as relaxed as he ever gets. Sam grins, and settles in.

They fall asleep, at some point, and Sam turned off the alarm on his phone, so it's a slow swim back up to consciousness the next morning, tucked in and warm with Dean's thigh pressed up against his and the smell of Dean's hair in his nose, the faintest grey threads of light peeking around the plasticky curtain. He stretches, drowsy, and turns over to press against Dean all the way, pushing his hand under the washed-thin softness of the shirt to feel the warmer softness of his belly. Gets a grunt, and Dean shifting his hips back, and there in the dark it'd be easy to press his lips down against Dean's neck and move on to nicer things—only Sam came up with a plan, while he was standing out in the cold getting gas yesterday morning, and he's going to stick with it.

"Hey, Dean," he says, pitched low against Dean's ear, and feels Dean wake up all against him, his ass soft against Sam's half-interested morning wood and his face turning, his hand sliding back to grip Sam's hip. He makes a soft, welcoming sound, deep in his chest, and Sam smiles against the soft fuzz of his hair. "Get up. We're going jogging."

Dean freezes, not understanding for a second. "Oh, you fucking—" he starts, but Sam pushes a pillow over his head and it sputters into nothing.

"Rise and shine, buddy," Sam sings, and shoves the blankets down, and gets up to face the day.

*

They kissed once, when they were kids. Sam was fourteen. In retrospect he knows that that's—really strange, even in the general context of their lives and what they are now, and sometimes it hits him totally unexpected. When he's in the shower, tired and grimy after a job, or when he's in line at a minimart with Dean's order of ho-hos and beer in hand. Dean laughing about something, that day, and teasing but not mean about it, and Sam gripping at his sleeve and leaning up and kissing him full on the mouth. No tongue—at fourteen Sam still thought that tongue-kissing was primarily wet and weird, and didn't know why anyone thought it was sexy—but Dean was soft and surprised and so utterly, completely familiar as Sam pressed up against him. In that moment it should've been weird, and it wasn't. It was only weird when Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and pulled away, uncertain, said, _Sammy, what are you doing_ , and he laughed again but not the same way he'd been laughing before, and then it curled up bizarre and humiliating in Sam's belly, and he'd said _just wanted to shut you up, jerk,_ and made it a joke, and they never spoke about it again.

He still doesn't know what compelled him, that day. It just seemed like the thing to do. Some part of him, unlocking, going: that's what we need. And then, later—when they were still kids, really, although they were in more danger than they'd ever been in and the world was out to get them—after heartbreak and misery, after—after Dad—it was Sam who did it again, leaning down this time with Dean sitting on the trunk of the car, and he could see that Dean knew what he was doing, and didn't stop him. That was at Bobby's house (with Bobby, fortunately, two states away), and Dean sat stiff for the space it took Sam to breathe in and out once against his mouth and then swarmed up to standing, his hands clenched in Sam's jacket and not shoving him away. That feeling—that _yes_ —it broke over Sam's head and heart like cool water on a miserable summer day, like sinking into a safe bed after a fugitive year, and despite everything that's happened since then, despite hell and betrayal and hurting each other, that yes has never quite been retracted. Not fully; not once. Some days, even with blood up to his knees and angels hunting them and hell locked inside his mind, Sam doesn't know how he ever got so lucky.

Since Sam's gotten his soul back—

There were dragons, in Portland. Dragons. Sam can't believe his life, sometimes. They'd lost the last girl, and they were driving back to Bobby's house, and Sam had been miserable up to his teeth with what Cas had told him. Stalking the earth like some kind of sociopath. Almost killing Bobby—letting Dean get turned into a _vampire_ , just to get evidence for a fucking case, when Dean was all that ever—the only thing—and he'd been biting his nails, staring out the car window, when Dean pulled over suddenly on a random country highway, Montana at midnight, and said _Sam_ with this thread pulling in his voice. Sam looked across the bench seat and Dean was staring out the windshield at the dark fields, his jaw square-set, and Sam—even if maybe he didn't deserve it. Even if he maybe ought to have gone to hell, all over again. He got a handful of Dean's jacket, and Dean looked at him, and then he pulled Dean over the bench and they kissed for the first time in, as far as Sam knew, years, and then they screwed awkward and half-laughing and knocking their heads into everything right there on the front seat, their hands fumbling and the angles all wrong. Dean's mouth, desperate. Sam clutching hard enough he hoped he didn't leave bruises, but wasn't after all that bothered when it turned out he did.

Even with all the wall crap, and the hell stuff, and what Sam might've done without a soul—what's between them, that's… all that's good. All Sam has to rely on, most days. Dean doesn't want to talk about it, just like he never, ever has, and that's okay. There's no need to define anything, or lay down rules. That's not who they are. But—Sam's back, now. They averted a damn apocalypse, and they paid their debts, Sam's pretty sure. They're together, and free, and something's probably hurtling toward them—something always seems to be—but for now, for a few weeks here, there's a respite, and Sam intends to take full advantage. All their lives they've never gotten to just—be. He thinks it's about time they got to try it.

*

It is fun, he'd admit to anyone who asked, to screw with Dean. Jogging in the morning, and separate showers, and healthy breakfasts, and no fooling around. Four days so far, and Dean's gritting his teeth but he hasn't thrown up a veto yet. Sam would be proud of him, if he didn't know it was mostly just because he's a stubborn bastard.

It is tough, to pull away from him in the mornings, and harder still if Sam wakes up in the middle of the night and forgets, and has Dean warm and available and all his. The enforced restraint is mostly just to annoy him, because they're brothers and winning a bet isn't meant to be fun for the loser, although it's also partly because when Sam _does_ decide it's time he knows the sex will be friggin' spectacular. He's not an amateur.

It's building, in touches and looks and their bodies pressed close, and Dean one morning has to stare at Sam's mouth for a long held moment before he actually does roll out of bed and shower, like he's been told. That time Sam has to pinch the inside of his own thigh to distract his dick, because otherwise it'd be real tempting to crash into the shower and say, _Dean_ , and get exactly what he wanted.

Sam's not looking for a job, though if they run into one they'll have to pause this whole thing to take care of it. Instead he points them south, and then west, until they're in Nashville with the days still cold but not nearly so bitter, and Dean's still fulfilling his end of the bargain. He's been telling Dean what to wear, when to shower, what to eat, where to go. If Sam told him to jump, he's pretty sure Dean would mockingly say _how high_ , but he'd do it.

Sam thought it'd get tiring, a little—two weeks is a long time for a joke to run thin—but it hasn't, at least not yet. With Sam directing the shopping Dean's not drinking as much, and with them warm together in bed every night he's sleeping more, and even if this little period of enforced celibacy is getting old, something does feel sort of—different.

"Wear that blue and red plaid today," Sam says, leaning in the bathroom doorway while Dean's brushing his teeth, and Dean nods, leans over, spits. No argument. His back gleams, still damp in the steam. Sam steps forward, touches the middle of his spine, and Dean glances up at him in the mirror. "Where should we go today?"

"You want my opinion?" Dean says, raising his eyebrows, but he answers: "Your call, but we ought to stock up on some salt and stuff. Trunk's running low."

Sam nods, while Dean wipes his mouth, and then steps forward, pressing against Dean's back, hands on his waist. "Hey, Dean," he says, and Dean's mouth parts so-slightly. "Don't jerk off in the shower."

A moment of staring, dragged out over the course of a few breaths. "Kinda mean," Dean says. "If you're making us all monk-status for two weeks."

Sam shrugs, says, "You can veto if you want, but I'd rather you didn't," and watches Dean's ears go pink in the spotty mirror.

A pause, while something shifts low in Sam's belly, and Dean's reflected eyes meet his. "You got it, boss," Dean croaks, after a second, and Sam squeezes his waist and steps away, balls lurching unexpectedly in want.

The store, and the supplies they need. Sam pays, while Dean pushes the cart. A diner, where Dean leaves his menu untouched in front of him. Sam gets him a meatloaf sandwich, fries, side of carrots. Dean eats it all, and doesn't bitch too much about the carrots. Sam sits and watches him, and flags down the waitress when Dean's Coke gets low, and in the slightly-too-small booth their knees press together and Dean chews the inside of his lip.

Outside on the sidewalk, the Impala's by far the most interesting of the cars lined up in the lot, shining among all the minivans, the battered sedans. How could Dean ever think, Sam wonders, when Dean interrupts the thought with: "What now, Sammy?"

Asking. They're standing close enough on the sidewalk that their elbows brush, and Sam looks at Dean but his eyes are fixed on the cars going by. It didn't sound like a challenge, the way he said it. "We'll go to a movie," Sam says, and Dean glances up at him but only nods, and that's—it's not—

They sit in the dark in the seats Sam picked, and Dean eats the M&Ms Sam bought, and Sam's untouched soda goes slowly flat while he sits and thinks, staring through the screen. He has no idea what's happening in the plot—some nonsense about Romans, which Sam's sure isn't historically accurate—but Dean seems to be enjoying it, didn't fuss about Sam's pick, and Sam thinks about all the times before when he's put his foot down about something and Dean makes a lot of noise, Dean fights and mocks and argues, and then Dean—does it. He looks at Dean's profile, lit in the sunny crash of a battle scene, and wonders what it would take. Really, seriously, what would it take to get Dean to use a veto? There are ridiculous things, sure—if Sam told Dean to get rid of the car, to hurt someone, to hurt _Sam_ —but right in this moment, in the emptiness of a Wednesday matinee, their shoulders pressed together, there's nothing Sam can think of that he might actually want that Dean wouldn't go for.

That—that sits different. They leave the movie and Dean's giving his qualified review—"Marcus was a cool dude, I guess, but the slave thing—man, him and Esca had a weird thing going on, right?"—and Sam nods, distracted. They get in the car and Dean looks at him across the bench seat and says, "Sammy?" and Sam knows that he has to direct them, that that was the deal, and Dean's waiting for it, Dean's open and ready, and Sam says, "Liquor store," his voice weirdly scratchy, and Dean's eyebrows pop high in surprise before he goes, "Awesome," with real excitement, and throws the car into drive.

Twelve-pack of beer, fifth of bourbon, bottle of this ridiculous sugary-pink strawberry concoction that Sam thinks was designed for sorority girls, and which Dean makes a face at but dutifully puts into their little basket anyway. When they're back at the motel Sam says, "Take a shower," and Dean shrugs and peels off his coat, says, "What do you want me to wear?" and Sam takes a breath and says, "Nothing."

Dean pauses, then, blinks at him. Somehow not what he was expecting. "No?" Sam says.

Like he'd say no. Dean shakes his head, brief, and licks his lips. "Be right out," he says.

"Take your time," Sam corrects, and Dean's brow knots for the briefest of moments before he nods, and disappears into the bathroom, and doesn't close the door. They don't, really, anymore.

Sam listens to the tub rush on, and then the flip into the lighter spatter of the shower. The thump of Dean's boots against the linoleum, the drop of his shirts and then the clink of his buckle as he shoves off his jeans and boxers, and Sam opens up the bourbon right there and necks two swallows straight from the bottle.

When they were younger—Sam was twenty-three, maybe, and it wasn't all that long before everything happened with Azazel, and dying, and Dean's deal getting made. Even if things were scary then, crazy, Sam's powers a mystery and shadows all around, between the two of them it was… easy. Easier than it had any right to be. They were still mostly just screwing around, then, figuring out what they wanted. Telling each other tiny secrets, in dark motels and in the backseat of the car and sometimes spread out in the thick grass of a random field off a random highway. Little revelations, in how their skin fit together. In that mermaid-themed motel in Jacksonville, Sam admitting that he'd never been with another man, because there'd only been one he wanted. In a dark and empty parking lot outside Savannah, Dean not answering when Sam asked if this was new for him, too, and that was answer enough, in itself, even if Sam could only feel the heat in Dean's face and not see it. Sam learning that he loved getting Dean in his mouth as much as he'd ever liked going down on a woman—and learning too that Dean liked Sam's hands in his hair, spanning his skull, and how he smiled involuntarily when Sam touched him just _there_.

They tried lots of things. Honeymoon phase, Sam realizes it was, now. Easy, when it shouldn't have been easy, and making something new in a world that was getting more and more unfamiliar. Once they crashed through the glass wall that had kept them apart they were like starving men, presented with more bounty than they knew what to do with. Sam got fucked for the first time on the floor of an abandoned house in Orange County, Dean careful and kissing all over his throat and his hand trapped tight in Sam's while Sam stared surprise at the ceiling, something inside his chest slowly turning over. The first king bed they got, in Albuquerque, and Sam kissed Dean on his back for so long that they just fell asleep together, and Sam woke in the early dawn to find Dean curled into the shape of his body, and that was somehow more world-changing than Dean riding him had been, even if when Dean woke up he elbowed Sam and yawned hot morning breath into his face and stumbled out of bed saying _gotta piss_.

All of it, right. What came later—when things went wrong, later—it's something Sam's tried to forgive himself for, and he thinks that Dean doesn't hold it against him. Proven, more or less, that night in Montana, and every day since. It's been a relearning, and it's been familiar, and warm, and nothing at all new, until now.

Sam takes another swallow off the bourbon and then pours a glass of the pink shit, for Dean, and sits on the bed, and waits for the water to turn off.

He comes out of the bathroom mostly dry, with a towel still in his hands. Naked, just like Sam told him, and not shy because Sam can't remembering Dean ever being shy, but there is something uncertain around his eyes. "Reporting for duty, boss," Dean says, and runs the towel over his head in a brisk fluff before he drops it on the floor.

Dean doesn't know what to do with his hands. They twitch, against his thighs. Why is _that_ hot, of all things. "Pick that up and fold it," Sam says, and Dean huffs, but of course he does it. Bends, and in the lamplight the light hair on his legs is just barely picked out in gold, his skin flushed cream. He holds the towel between his hands once it's a neat square, raising his eyebrows at Sam, and Sam says, feeling outside of himself, "Put it on the floor, and kneel on it."

Real surprise. There in the part of his lips, his eyes wide. Sam's just making this up as he goes, but now that's all he wants to see—and Dean, goddamn him, he hesitates for only a moment and then he puts the towel down on the thin shitty carpet and goes to his knees, looking up at Sam now, and Sam has to a take a deep breath, his dick swelling inside his jeans.

Sam takes a long moment just to look him over, while the flush slowly climbs in Dean's cheeks. He's a little broader now than he was when they were younger, his stomach a little soft. His hairless chest, and the low curve of his belly where Sam's bitten him and just that's gotten him to come. The gingery patch of his pubic hair and his pink, pretty dick, plump but not hard, and his balls hanging in the spread of his thighs where he's kneeling high, and his hands curled at his sides, still not sure what to do. Sam's chest throbs. He licks his lips and Dean does, too, and the shine on his mouth makes Sam say, "Get your fingers wet."

Sweep of his eyelashes and Dean glances at his bag, where their lube's stashed, but he knows what Sam meant—and, yeah, shit, he lifts his right hand and sucks in the first two fingers, sucking, his lips pillow-plush around his own knuckles. "That's it," Sam says, thin on no breath, and Dean's eyelashes flicker. He pumps his fingers in and out a few times, gets them slick, and Sam goes down on his knees, too, so he can watch Dean's face from six inches away, and when he says, "Okay, that's enough," he hears the tiny noise Dean makes in the back of his throat before he pulls his hand away, gleaming in the light.

Sam holds his wrist, light, and dips in, and brushes Dean's jaw with his mouth. Barely counts as kissing, even if Dean shudders and turns into it. Sam breathes in the clean ocean-fresh of their soap and lifts up to find Dean's eyes heavy, the dark spread in them. He doesn't resist when Sam pushes his hand behind him, curving his fingers over Dean's wet ones to push into the barely-haired crack of his ass. "Finger yourself," Sam says. "I want to see."

"Shit," Dean says, his ears brick red. Sam rubs over his stomach, grips one pec, and Dean heaves in a breath and Sam feels it when he pushes his fingers in. That whole-body flinch, the one Sam remembers from that very first time in a shower-stall in Tennessee, and Dean looking at Sam like—yes, like it was a shock even if they both knew exactly what was going to happen, even if he'd done it who knew how many times before. His knuckles flex, under Sam's hand, and Sam pulls back and gets a hold of his hip, says, "Keep going."

He could move around to watch. They've jerked off for each other before and Dean's even done this for him, shown him what he liked, grinning and saying _you think you can manage that, Sasquatch,_ and Sam had practically tackled him flat to prove that, yes, he could. This is—new, and new again, the control rippling in Sam's belly. "Dean," he says, and Dean half-gasps, his hips tilting. His dick's flushed, bobbing up, and Sam says, "Play with your nuts," and Dean groans and does, cupping them careful and rolling his thumb over the thin soft skin.

Sam has to let go, then—lets go, and stands up, and gets the glass of sugary pink he poured. He tips the cup against Dean's lip and says, "Swallow," and Dean does, gulps it down fast and gasps when Sam takes the glass away. His shoulder's flexing, and Sam can hear the drag of his skin, the wet probably gone and only the friction of skin-on-skin left, but his dick's hard all the way and he's not hurt, and Sam sits back on the bed, leans his elbows on his knees to watch.

"Fuck, look at you," Sam says, and Dean squeezes his eyes closed, arches his back. The tip of his dick pearls white and Sam's mouth floods with spit he has to swallow down. "Doing just what I say. Doing so good, Dean, jesus."

"Sammy," Dean says, groans, and Sam says, "Okay—okay, stop."

Why did he say that? Dean stops, though—he stops, and pulls out his fingers, and hunches his shoulders forward, his whole body curling over his straining dick, and Sam's gut lurches, his hands fisting into his jeans. "I'm not going to fuck you," he says, almost dizzy, and Dean looks at him still breathing hard, his mouth a temptation. "Dean, you get that? You're not going to come tonight. Say you understand."

A few seconds of breathing, of Dean licking his mouth wet again. "I understand," he says, voice brutally low, and Sam gets out _come here_ and Dean shuffles forward on his knees and lets Sam fall onto his mouth, lets Sam kiss him sloppy and biting until his lips are puffy and dark, and Sam's almost shaking, his tongue thick with the sugar-taste, his thighs clenched so hard it feels like he's going to cramp.

Dean blinks at him, drunk-looking, when he pulls back. "Perfect," Sam says, and Dean's eyelashes shutter, damp. Damp. Sam palms his face, thumbs over his ridiculous mouth. It's not even ten o'clock. "Stay there," Sam says, and stands up and scrubs his hands over his face, and then gets the bedcovers pulled back, and says, "Okay, get up," and gets Dean back-to-chest with him still fully clothed but for his boots, and he gets his fingers there where Dean's hot and a little open and plays with the soft skin, petting and scrubbing down his taint and making Dean open up his legs so Sam can touch his balls, and Dean breathes deep with his face pressed into the pillow, and when he starts whining Sam—doesn't stop. He licks his thumb and presses it in, deep, and says against Dean's throat, _good, just like that_ , and Dean's hips kick back and his hands grip at Sam's jeans, into the blanket, and Sam doesn't know how long it is before he finally backs off, but Dean's temple's wet when he leans in to kiss it and that should make him—that should be—but it's not. He gets up, turns off the lamps, says in the dark, "Go to sleep," and Dean makes this punched noise and throws his arm over his face, shuddering, and Sam goes and closes the door to the bathroom and jerks off fast into the toilet, braced with one arm on the wall and his mind not on the feel of Dean's body or his eyes pooled dark with want but on that sensation of wet salt against his mouth, and when he comes his belly pools empty and strange but he still, he still—

He dresses in pajamas and turns off the bathroom light, and when he gets into bed Dean's still awake, his eyes shining in the barely-there glow from the parking lot lights. Sam should've pulled the blackout curtains. He wonders if Dean heard him, through the door. "I told you go to sleep," Sam says, but quietly, and Dean bites his lip, white teeth showing in the dark.

He pushes in, his hand sliding over Dean's bare stomach and feeling the tiny startled flinch. "You can say no," he says, very quiet, and Dean looks at him and only then closes his eyes, his head ducking down against the pillow with his eyebrows a knot, and Sam slides his leg against Dean's and closes his eyes, too, the dark pressed up around them, everything outside the motel room feeling about a million miles away.

Before dawn, when the bed shifts, and his eyes open but it's a while before he registers the noises he's hearing. Dean, pissing in the bathroom, the door open. After four, by the red numbers on the motel's clock, and Sam rolls onto his back, drags his hand over his face. Toilet flushes, and then water running in the sink, and he pushes his hand into his hair, remembering. Feels—further away, in the fug of the over-warm room, in the body-smell of their bed, and he thinks, what is he doing. This was all a joke. Just screwing around, to get Dean back when he wouldn't listen.

The sink turns off and there's some muffled rustle, and then bare feet on linoleum and then Dean, naked in the doorway to the bathroom. He pauses, when he sees Sam's awake, but comes back toward the bed, and when Sam holds out a hand he kneels up on the mattress and comes close enough to take it. The dim's enough to see the white of his skin, the lighter tips of his hair. Sam tugs him in and Dean lays full-length along his front, and sighs when they're touching, and his head tucks under Sam's chin, and Sam falls asleep all at once and dreams of blurred things: running through a dark night, and a knife in his hand, and Dean.

When the sun's up, Sam's awake first, and gets showered and changed while Dean's still hugging his pillow, and leaves a note propped on the bedside table on which he wrote, _getting breakfast_ , and then after a full minute of sitting there holding the pen he added, _don't get dressed_. It sits hot in his belly while he takes the car to a diner and gets fruit, and sourdough toast with jam, and two cups of steaming coffee—and it's worse, when he manages to fumble open the room, to find Dean sitting up in bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, his hair a little flat on one side and his eyes clear and his body bare, waiting for what Sam wants to do with it.

"Sleep well?" Sam says, and Dean snorts, but he says, "Yes," and Sam watches him swallow.

"Good," is all Sam says to that, and lays out his takeout boxes on the table. The coffee's still hot, and it's surprisingly good when he sips it, and Dean's just watching him. Sam breathes in deep through his nose, and says, "Hey, Dean, pick up that towel," and Dean chafes his hands, the dry rasp audible all the way across the room where Sam's sitting, before he stands up, and does it.

Sam has him put it on the floor, right in front of his chair. Dean licks his lips when Sam says, "Down," and it takes him a second to hit his knees, but he does it. He does it, even with the sunlight streaming weak into the room, no blurry nighttime wanting between their bodies to make it easy. He shifts his weight, muscle in his thigh flexing, his dick soft, then sits back on his heels.

"Know you always wanted a dog, Sammy, but this seems like a little far to go, man," Dean says, even. He's looking at Sam's chest, not his face. His shoulders are square, the freckles on them visible in the morning light.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. "You know, I never really wanted a dog? I mean—not really." Dean's eyes jump to his and he frowns. Sam shrugs one shoulder, struggling to put it how he means. "I just wanted—a dog would've meant we had a home, you know? It would've been something that was mine."

"Well, you got that," Dean mutters, eyes dropping, and Sam reaches out and puts his fingertips on Dean's collarbone. Slides them up, and gets the side of his neck in a warm grip. Dean tilts his head into it, easy, but he's got a flush building again. "Sam," he says, little note curved into it like he's asking.

"Let me," Sam says, and he's not talking about the bet. Screw the bet. Dean meets his look, and Sam drags a thumb over his cheek, touches the fine lines beside his eye. Knows that Dean knows what he's asking, because they've always known how to talk, at least here.

A beat, while Dean's still, under his hand. "You're the boss," he says, finally, and Sam's whole body goes hot, enough that he can feel the blood prickling in his cheeks. Dean looks back and forth between his eyes, seeing—everything, maybe, and his lips part so Sam can see his tongue, pressed against the back of his teeth. Sam picks up a piece of fruit from the takeout box, cool and slippery between his fingers, and thinks—could he— _would_ he—the image flaming up in his mind from absolutely nowhere. Random impulse, not something he remembers fantasizing about before, but there's no reason, now, not to go with it, and he holds out the fruit a few inches from Dean's mouth, and looks him in the eye.

"Breakfast," Sam says, and his head could come off when Dean swallows, and nods.

It's—surreal. More weird than anything Sam's ever done, and he's done some ridiculous stuff in his day. He feeds Dean a bite at a time, and Dean's face does something complicated with that first bite of pineapple but he breathes shaky for a second before he opens his mouth and lets Sam put it on his tongue. Pineapple and strawberries, and squares of mealy cantaloupe, and the juice on Sam's fingers wetting Dean's mouth, and the way Dean keeps looking at Sam's face when he swallows. The toast is sourdough with blackberry jam, the weird combo Dean's always gone for in diners, and Sam tears it into easy bite-size pieces and wipes up a smear that gets on Dean's lip and sucks it off his thumb, aching, while Dean waits for his next bite. Bizarre, completely, and Dean's letting him do it, and that's—

Their coffee's cold, by the time he's done. "I'm going to shower," Sam says, lightheaded, trying to keep his voice even. "You can nuke this and drink it while I clean up."

Dean's eyes flick toward Sam's lap where he's thick in his jeans. "Okay," he says, and accepts Sam's hand up, flinching a little as his legs stretch out. He's got a terrycloth imprint on his knees and his dick's soft, and Sam wonders—but he leans into Sam for a second before he turns away, and picks up his cup.

*

They leave town that day. Dean drives, apparently relaxed, where Sam points. West. They don't talk much. Sam doesn't know what to say, and Dean doesn't offer. They hit Jackson, and then Jonesboro, and Sam keeps them going, and in a convenience store that afternoon Dean picks up a local paper and stares at the story on page two long enough that Sam comes up behind his shoulder and reads it, and it's—three dead, something dangerous in the woods. Okay.

"What do you think?" Dean says, quiet so the old guy at the counter can't hear, and Sam steps back, says, "I guess we're going to find out," and Dean looks at him suddenly sharp, but nods, and pays for the paper and their gas besides.

Greers Ferry. Not much of a town. The lake dominates everything about the place, and it's still cold enough that when Sam stands on the shore the wind stings, freezing. The dead men were found among the trees, though, and Sam puts his back to the water and follows Dean with his shotgun held low, searching, the day fading into twilight and the cold pressing in.

What they've been doing—it's on hold, for a day. For two, for three. They rent a fishing cabin, cheap since it's out of season, with a two-queen bedroom done all in forest green plaid, and they sleep separate, and they work together, and it's—okay. Sam suggests that they split up, to save time by questioning the sheriff and the widows separately, and Dean says, "Nah, it'll hit better if we do the FBI thing as partners, I think this dude'll get squirrely if we good cop-bad cop it," and Sam relaxes, somewhere under his gut, and shrugs and says, "Fine, but you have to be bad cop, I'm not doing it again after that time in Durango," and Dean grins and says, "Dude, what do you mean, you were _totally_ believable," and Sam shoves his shoulder and takes the joshing and thinks, utterly relieved, that it's not—they're not different. It's still them, after all.

The sheriff does go down easy, especially with Dean pacing like an eager-to-do-violence tiger behind where the skinny little man is sweating in his seat, and Sam has to stop himself from laughing with a quick hand over his mouth when Dean waggles his eyebrows as the guy admits that he has no idea what he's doing, that he faked the last two reports because no one would believe him, otherwise. It's less funny when they take on the first widow, and then the second. Then, the grieving girlfriend, too young for what's happened. Dean's steady with them, his hand quick under the poor girl's elbow when she can't seem anymore to stand, and Sam watches while Dean lets her cry into his chest, his face grim. Sometimes Sam forgets, with his blank year blotting out what he should've known. Dean had another life. A kid who relied on him, and a woman who cared. He wasn't as good with comforting the victims, before. He looks up at Sam, over the girl's head, his hand gentle on her golden hair, and what that does to the pit of Sam's chest is—

A cold, cold night when they figure it out. Men torn up, and pieces missing but none of them obvious, and claw marks in the trees, and when it's approaching midnight and Sam's following Dean's jacketed back through the underbrush, there's that smell, that sharp stinking unmistakable reek that catapults him back to eleven years old, Kentucky, summer, at teenage Dean's disgusted face—and Dean swings around now, stares at him, and they say _wampus cat_ in unison, Sam half-disbelieving. They're supposed to just terrorize animals, or go for kids, the men are too big—but then there's a flash of yellow eyes over Dean's shoulder, bright when nothing here is bright, and Sam yells in time for Dean to dodge and then it's—shotguns fired, and Dean pulling his knife, and Sam getting tackled back to the leaf-cluttered ground with the thing snarling and breathing into his face, the fucking _smell_ , god—and the flash of intelligence in its eyes—the faintly feminine scream, like a jaguar, when Dean stabs it between the ribs—and Sam shoves at its suddenly weak chest, rolls, and Dean hauls him up to standing in time to see the skin slither away. What's left is a woman, bleeding with the knife-handle sticking out under her shaking hands, crying shocked at them, her eyes huge and dark and human, until she stops. Sam's still panting, Dean's hand hard on his arm, and she's already dead.

They're quiet, after the fire burns down. When they get into the cabin Dean stands there, rubbing his hands together with a dry rasp, his eyes distant. Sam stands and watches him, looks at his shoulders and his boots set solid in the rug, and he says, "Hey," and Dean's head turns without his eyes meeting Sam's, and Sam says, "Let's go, huh? Let's get on the road."

Dean blinks, and seems to focus again. "Yeah," he says, agreeing automatically, and then seems to come fully back from wherever he went and shakes his head. "Wait, you've got—you ought to shower, man. Think you got a little kitty stank on you, and I am not getting that all over my upholstery."

They both kinda reek, in fact, but Sam shrugs. "Yeah, okay," he says, and then says, "come on," and Dean closes his eyes, tired, but does. Stripping off in the bright bathroom, their clothes left in a smoke-scented pile, and the shower's one with a tub, the spray sputtering for a few seconds before it warms up. Sam gets in first, wets his hair and washes it while Dean's taking a leak, and when he finishes rinsing out the suds Dean's there, the curtain tugged open so he can see. "Don't hog the hot water, dude," he says, and they trade spaces with the ease of dozens of shared showers just like this, Dean's skin soft under the slickness of the water, and Sam scrubs all over with the bar of soap while Dean soaks in the spray, his eyes closed, trails running down his shoulders and chest, wetting his pubes to almost black, his dick soft.

Sam doesn't want anything just then. Doesn't even want Dean's body, really. Wants to go for a run, looping the lakeshore under the hanging moon, the pounding of his feet into the ground and the good burn of his muscles working, and how everything slips away into distance, the closest thing to meditation that's ever worked for him. But it's late, and the forest's still too close, and Dean opens his eyes after rinsing shampoo out of his hair and looks at him with bruised-looking rings under his eyes, and Sam knows he's not going anywhere. "Come on," Sam says, again, and he can hardly hear himself over the sound of the water but Dean turns off the spray, and they towel off together, and Sam doesn't have to say anything for Dean to crawl into bed with him, and they lay chest-to-back with Dean's lips soft against Sam's shoulder, and they don't either of them sleep for a long time but they do drop off, eventually, and Sam sleeps hard enough that if he dreams, he doesn't remember them.

When he wakes up there's light in the room and his watch tells him, after a bleary moment of his brain coming online, that it's almost ten o'clock. God. He rubs his face, getting the sleep out of his eyes, and registers only after a slow ticking-through of random details—blankets tangled at his waist, his neck cricked—that Dean's not in bed.

He turns over, heart in his throat, neck popping with a gunshot _crack_. Bag—both bags, dumped on the other bed, and Dean's wallet there on the nightstand. A shadow across the window and when Sam sits up fully he hears the faintest music, and sighs.

In boxers and a thrown-on flannel he opens the door and, yeah. Dean's working on the car, grease on the hips of his jeans and on his t-shirt, Motorhead playing through the open doors on the tapedeck. "Something wrong?" Sam says, and Dean looks over his shoulder, wrist-deep in… something. "How long have you been up?"

"Morning, Ignatowski," Dean says, raising his eyebrows. Sam touches his hair. Yikes, fair. While he drags his hands through it Dean shrugs, and turns his attention back to the engine. "Few hours. Figure we got some downtime."

Sam tucks his hair behind his ears, looks out at the day. Cold, but clear, the sky over the lake a deep shocking blue. He half-buttons his shirt to keep the cold out and sits on the steps of the cabin porch, elbows on his knees. "You good?" he says.

It was neutral, and he doesn't mean anything by it. Dean gives him a look, anyway. "When am I not," he says, and keeps working, and so Sam leans his shoulder against the porch railing and closes his eyes, listening as _Deaf Forever_ comes on the tape, Dean singing along under his breath, the sun warming Sam's face.

They pack up together, not that there was that much to pack. Sam leaves the keys to the cabin in the mailbox, because apparently that's what passes for security around here, and Dean shuts the trunk to the car and leans his ass against it, eyes on the lake. Sam stands and watches him, hands in his jacket pockets. "What do you want?" he says, after a minute.

Dean glances at him. "Up to you, right?" he says.

For a second Sam doesn't know what he means, and when he does—he huffs, shaking his head. "The bet? C'mon."

It feels distant, past another handful of dead bodies, another hard-won fight. Dean shrugs, though, shifting his bootheels in the dirt so he's slouched further onto the car. "Two weeks. We only really got through—what, five days? Six? So you got some time left."

"Dean," Sam says, because he can't think what else to say, and Dean's eyes drop to the dirt, his cheek sucking in on one side. Chewing it, and Sam's just—weirdly lost. It was a joke, until it wasn't, and the feeling when it wasn't is gossamer, just past where Sam can grasp it, right this second. With the sun in his eyes, and Dean distant.

They haven't eaten. Sam takes a deep breath. It's not like it's hard, to make decisions. Nearly noon, and he wants out of this town. "Let's head toward Oklahoma City," he says, and Dean's eyes cut up to him. "Lunch on the way. I want a tuna melt."

He says it clear, direct. Dean meets his eyes and nods, after a second. "You gonna feed me again?" he says.

Sam's gut lurches. Dean's lips against his fingers, that sensation of wet against his nail. "Not in public," he says, fighting to make it even, and Dean's mouth curves up on one side and he shrugs, says, "Fair enough, boss," and goes and turns on the car, the engine roaring loud in the lakeside quiet. Sam stands still for a few seconds, thinking—but screw it. There's lunch to get, and miles to cover, and Dean's okay. He gets into the passenger side, stretches out his legs, and rolls down the window to let in the clear cold air. Time to move.

*

Oklahoma City. Huge sprawling wasteland of a town, Sam's always thought. Ugly and broad, not a good combo. They make it at nightfall and in one of the dozen suburbs Sam picks out another motel, clean and boring, weirdly busy. "Some kind of convention in town?" Dean says, frowning, and when Sam goes and asks for a room the kid at the counter grimaces and says, "We've only got a king room left, sir," in this tone of absolute apology.

Sam doesn't smile, but he bites the inside of his cheek to make sure. "I guess we'll take it," he says, solemn, and the boy thanks him for understanding, and hopes he'll have a good stay at the Valley Brook Inn and Suites. Sam doesn't think there's a valley within fifty miles, but he accepts the keys anyway.

Beige, this time with notes of pale pink and paler blue, and Dean doesn't blink at the king but looks at the hyperbland watercolor hung above the miniature table with strong distaste. "Seriously," he says, and Sam smiles at his back, glad. "Could it be more Bob Ross?"

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, and Dean glances at him over his shoulder. "Come here and suck my dick."

Dean's mouth parts, shocked. Sam feels it too, his gut clamoring, but his dick's swelling in his shorts just from saying it out loud, bald like that. But the bet's still on, if it even needed to be, and Dean drops his bag on the table and comes across the room to where Sam's still standing by the door and gets his hands on Sam's belt, starts tugging. Sam watches his face, a few inches away, even if Dean keeps his eyes on what his fingers are doing. Pink on his ears, already, and Sam runs his thumb over the neat curve of the one on the right, and that makes Dean glance up at him, for a second with his hands still, before he goes to his knees and pulls Sam's jeans open. Not being all that careful, not that Sam asked him to—Sam leans his shoulders against the wall, tips his hips forward helpfully, and Dean peels his boxers down over the swelling curve of his dick and down below his balls before he kneels up, gathers the root in one hand and holds Sam's hip with the other and ducks in, lips soft at the head, licks his mouth and gets it wet and goes down, meeting his hand, hot, perfect.

Sam sighs, lets his eyes fall closed. Dean's grip shifts on his hip, sliding to his ass, his tongue working as Sam hardens up in his mouth. Soft, inside, Dean always so careful of his teeth even when Sam's urged him to rough it up, in hot moments. The silky inside of his cheek, and Sam slips his fingers down blind, holds Dean's prickly jaw in an underhand grip and rocks his hips, slides his cockhead around all that wet heaven. Silk, in his cheek, and the wet slipping pressure of his tongue. "Suck the head," Sam says, and Dean makes a tiny noise that reverberates through his throat to the side of Sam's hand but he does, he pulls back those few inches and applies a pursed mouth to the underside, that knot of nerves, so good it makes Sam's thighs clench. He looks down, then, and finds Dean watching him—eyes fixed on Sam's face and a streak of shining wet across his cheek, his pupils so huge that Sam can't see any green. "Fuck," Sam says, soft, and Dean sucks in a breath against his dick and jacks his fist through the spit, sliding easy, the vein slipping under the callus on his thumb. "Stop."

More because his balls lurched, ready, than anything. Dean stops. He's still in all his clothes, kneeling with his ass on his bootheels. Sam swipes his thumb against the wet streak on his cheek, already going sticky, and then, carefully, pushes his dick along the same path, the stubble prickling agonizingly against the sensitive skin but his gut turning over with how it looks—dark and heavy against where Dean's paler, the trail of wet he's leaving. The size of it. If he bottomed out he'd get into Dean's throat, past it. He's done it on accident and Dean's coughed, gagged, and he's apologized. He could do it now and say nothing. He licks his lips. "Get undressed," he says, tilting his hips back. Dean's whole cheek is wet now. "Everything."

Dean stares up at him. His mouth's red. "Okay," he says, almost dumb-sounding, and gets up to his feet. Sam doesn’t watch—he's seen this, and he doesn't want to come in ten minutes like a teenager. He grabs his bag, instead, dumped to the side, and takes it over to the table with his dick bobbing in front of him. He fists himself once, weird apology to himself for stopping, and then starts digging through his crap. Socks and shirts, dirty jeans, and his dopp kit, and in there the lube—half-empty, and he hopes it's enough. He feels—sloppy. In charge but with no plan, and the weird freedom of that's sending bizarre flickers of energy through him, his fingers tingling, his balls full and wanting.

"Sammy," Dean says, and when Sam turns around he's naked. Clothes a semi-neat pile, on the other side of the door, and his dick heavy but not really hard, not yet. His ears are bright red, his face still shining. Jesus christ. "What do you want me to do?"

Big question. Sam beckons him closer, and when he's close enough he reels him in and kisses him, hard, forcing his jaw wide. Dean clutches his arm, his shoulder, opens up for it. Taste of dick on his tongue, that echo-flavor that always winds Sam up because it's like a flag's been staked down, territory claimed. He groans, grips Dean's ass in both hands, pulls him up into Sam's body so their dicks are near enough the same height to rub together—still just enough wet from Dean's mouth to make it good, their balls plushly touching. Dean huffs into his mouth, hips squirming. "Yeah?" Sam says, and bites his bottom lip. God, he's hot. Dean wraps his arm around Sam's neck, makes a deep noise, and Sam applies his teeth to his jaw instead, to the tendon under his ear, sloppy and heedless of whatever marks he might leave. When he thinks of it, he bites again, harder, and Dean says _shit_ , breathless, his panting hot against Sam's neck, in his hair.

"I've been wanting to fuck you so bad," Sam says, up against the back of Dean's ear, and gets a bruising grip on his arm for it. He laughs, kisses Dean's neck. "Yeah. Okay."

When he pulls back—christ. Dean's mouth has gone darker, like he's been biting himself, and his eyes are so heavy he looks drunk. Booze—yeah, that's an idea, but they killed the bourbon bottle on the wampus cat hunt. Sam grins, remembering. "Hang on," he says, and leaves Dean to upend his bag again, and—yeah, there it is. Tequila Rose, gooey pink. He cracks the bottle—sugar dried in the threading, this stuff is so nasty—but he necks it anyway, takes a few deep gulps. Artificial, strong, and he gasps when he takes it away from his mouth, the fire of it hitting his gut fast. "C'mon," he says, and Dean shakes his head but holds out his hand, and takes three swallows fast, his throat bobbing, and when Sam kisses him again that's all he tastes—strawberries and cream, sugary sweet.

"You've got shitty taste in liquor," Dean mumbles, when Sam pulls back enough to thumb his mouth, but he looks drunk even if the booze can't be working on him, not yet and not strong enough to really hit Dean's liver.

"Yeah?" Sam says, and Dean nods, eyes on his lips, and Sam pulls him around, shoves him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He goes to his knees between Dean's legs, gets a hand warm and firm around his balls—makes Dean spread his thighs wide, and then wider, pushing out his left leg with his shoulder, knocking him back so he's on his elbows. "Talk to me."

Dean breathes deep through Sam rolling his balls, his dick jerking against his hip where it's laying heavy. "What about?"

Sam shrugs, slipping his fingers down Dean's taint. Touches his asshole, and he didn't make Dean shower and so there's day-end sweat there, and god knows what else. Dean's eyelashes dip, his hips tipping up. "Tell me—" he says, and he's got no plan, so what arrives in his head is: "Tell me what you like me to do. What you want when we're about to screw."

It pops Dean's eyes wide. That, somehow, and that makes it all Sam wants to know. He dips in, bites the inside of Dean's thigh, feels the muscle quiver under his teeth. "Dean," he says, looking up the heaving expanse of Dean's torso, "you gotta say. Tell me, or use your veto."

The veto gets him. He licks his lips, his thigh straining under Sam's grip. "I like—" he says, and swallows. Face flaming. Jesus, Sam didn't realize—even with all this, Dean being shy. He lifts his head up, rolls Dean's nuts with his thumb, petting the smooth root of his dick, and Dean gulps air and says, in a rush, "When you get all—when you're super into it, and you start—like now, you keep biting me." Sam stares at him, dick pulsing where it's shoved against the box spring. Dean turns his face away, looks up at the ceiling. "Shit, Sam, you—don't look at me like that, you're the one—"

"Yeah?" Sam says, interrupts, and Dean bites his bottom lip but, fuck, Sam can do him one better, and he dips and bites the other thigh, sharp and hard and sucking, and Dean's leg jerks in his grip and he groans, and the groan gets deeper and turns into a yelp, gasping, and he says, thin, _Sam—_ and Sam lets go, sees the shape of his teeth bit in there, the skin ruddy-dark and ready to bruise, and he surges up, pushes his hips into the cradle of Dean's and bites him again, on his chest, and around his nipple, lapping against the rough-tight bud of it with his tongue. Dean makes a strangled noise, dropping flat on the bed, and he gets his hands in Sam's hair and his thighs close around Sam's hips, his whole body straining. Sam lets go and breathes there, his own spit hot and Dean's nipple puffy and hurting, he bets, and his gut twists, and he grips Dean's ribs and says there against his skin—"Anyone ever do this?" He looks up, finds Dean staring at him, foggy-eyed. "Anyone else? Tell me. Lisa, or—or fuck, I don't know, Cas, or some guy—marking you up, getting you—"

"No," Dean says, squirming back. Sam's dick spits against his own stomach, for a second of weird triumph, except—Dean's flushed in his cheeks now too, and his chest, red from navel to hairline, and he shakes his head, says, "No, Sam, I'm not—veto. Veto, I'm not telling you that."

Sam breathes, turned on still, beyond all reason. "Okay," he says, a pit of—something, opening under him. Dean turns his face away, his jaw clenching, and Sam licks his lips. "Okay," he says, and pushes up and bites Dean hard—hard, on the curve of his shoulder, and Dean half-yells _fuck_ and grabs his head, squirms up with his dick shoving into Sam's stomach, and Sam doesn't break the skin but his gut is almost there, telling him to, and he says, "Dean," and smears his mouth up Dean's throat, catching his lips against the stubble, and he lifts up enough to get Dean's head in both hands, gripping, and he says, "Dean, I'm gonna fuck you," and Dean's eyes shock wide and he pants and nods but that—that doesn't matter, because if he hadn't nodded, Sam would've—he would've anyway.

He gulps air and pushes up, back, grabs Dean by the hip and shoves him over, onto his stomach. Fuck, his ass—pretty, high and full, and the lube's there on the bed where Sam tossed it and he gets his fingers wet, shoves two in, fast as fast. Dean grunts, gripping the comforter, and Sam ducks down and bites his ass, too—why not—and Dean squirms, his asshole rippling around Sam's fingers. He pumps them in and out, enough to make sure there's a little wet—rears back, wets his dick, fisting himself as fast as he can—and then he crouches up, gets a knee on the bed for leverage and angles himself and pushes—fuck—in, and Dean yelps and cringes forward but Sam plants a hand in the middle of his back, keeps him in place, and crushes in, the rippling ring of Dean's asshole a brutal grip, hot, squeezing, so he has to turn his face away and look at the shitty watercolor print of pine trees not to just come, creaming Dean up without even having the pleasure of taking his time.

"Shit," Dean says, panting against the blanket. Sam leans forward, shifts his hips. Watches Dean's hands, helplessly gripping, and feels him—warm, open. He knows how to open up for Sam's dick, and his back heaves under Sam's hand but he's not hurt, or at least the hurt's not bad enough to stop, and Sam says, his mouth hovering near Dean's ear, "I'm gonna—" and Dean's hips tilt, and Sam fucks forward, heedless and his dick blood-heavy and craving, and Dean groans and squirms and Sam—fucks him, anyway, shoves in and makes it good, a steady rocking into all that heat and shudder and closing his eyes, tipping his head back, just—feeling it, _using_ like he hasn't in—like he hadn't dared—and Dean's making noise, a forced-out grunting noise every time Sam pushes into him—and Sam lifts up, gets his feet under himself and pulls Dean's hips up, up, forces him up to standing—and his dick slips out but that's okay, because Dean's legs are shaking and he's bent over, his back sweat-shining and heaving, his weight barely kept up on his hands planted on the bed—and Sam holds his ass open and watches himself sink back inside, thick and dark, Dean blooming open around him all sore and wet and red and, oh, fuck—fuck—

"Tell me it's good," Sam says, panting, fucking in fast, and Dean says _fuck, Sammy,_ sore-voiced, and he says _god_ and he says _yeah, yeah it's good, please—you—please, let me_ and Sam comes, deep, thighs shaking against Dean's thighs, humping in and getting him wet, sliding easy in his own mess, fucking past what his balls want to give up but it's so good, so goddamn good, he doesn't want to stop. He grips Dean's hips, tight and hurting, and draws out slow—so he can see, the first quick gape that spills white down to Dean's nuts before it closes, and Dean's dick hanging so red and heavy below, and Sam shoves in three fingers, pushes forward and down, seeking. "I want you to come," Sam says, and Dean crumples down to his elbows, his face against the bed. "Come on, Dean, come for me."

"Sam," Dean mumbles, muffled, and Sam wraps his dick in a tight grip and forces in his pinky finger—god, he's so fuckin wet, and sloppy, and Sam fucks his hand back and forth, hot-faced, his knuckles straining the skin to almost-white—and Dean comes that way, shooting at random, jets against the comforter and his own thighs and against Sam's knee when he shoves forward, pulling out of Dean's shocked and rippling body to hold him tight, close, yanking him upright by sheer muscle to get his back against Sam's chest, his head tipping back against Sam's shoulder, his mouth there, open, for Sam to lick into, to bite, to breathe against. Dean's boneless, shaking. Good. God, he's so good, the hottest Sam's ever known and ever will. "You—" Sam starts, but his brain supplies nothing more than that. Dean tips his face into Sam's throat, shudders, his weight sagging. They crumple down to the bed, shaky, and Sam musters enough strength to pull them up a little more, gets Dean turned over, and doesn't have the energy to do more than tip their foreheads together, their skin sticking, jizz everywhere, a mess. So good. He cups a hand around the back of Dean's head and Dean sighs, lips moving against Sam's collarbone. It's good. It's enough.

*

It's an incredibly beautiful morning. Sam watches the sun rise, his arm slung around Dean's waist. Birds are singing, even in the scrubby trees of the motel parking lot, and through the blinds Sam can tell it's going to be a clear day. Maybe they'll look for a job. Maybe not. It's warm in here, and he's shoved off the blankets during the night, and Dean's skin smells—he sighs, quietly, and brushes his lips against Dean's shoulder, and then carefully backs off the bed, not wanting to wake his brother.

Pissing, and brushing his teeth, and taking a shower. He lets the water stream against his shoulders, about as high as it ever gets, but it's at least a strong steady pulse, heat penetrating to the bone. When he's clean he towels off and then wraps the towel around his hips, and when he peeks around the half-open bathroom door Dean's still sleeping, dead to the world. Good. He needs the rest.

Sam's duffle is a mess, over on the table. No wonder, with him tearing through it last night. Dirty socks, and shirts he's worn a few too many times. They need to hit a laundromat, today. Maybe that'll be first on the agenda. Or second, Sam amends. Food first. He can go get some, while Dean's cleaning up—and maybe—maybe he'll make Dean talk. About what he wants. If this is actually okay. If—how they are—if he wants this, sometimes. Not rules, or code words, or that stuff. Sam knows some people do that, but he can't fit that alongside his brother. Just—a day, here and there. If one of them wants it. For Sam to say, _Hey, Dean_ , and for Dean to go still at attention.

He can't find a damn thing in this bag. He turns it upside down, finally, shakes everything out onto the table. His dopp kit, shoved aside, and there's those jeans with the bloodstain, and the jeans with the cat smell—jeez, do they need to do laundry—and there's a rolled-up pair he hasn't worn, finally. Clean-ish, seems like, when he smells them, and he unrolls them, figures he'll have to go commando for the day (and imagines Dean's face, later, when Sam tells him to unzip his jeans and he finds—), and he's shaking them out to put on when he feels—something. A lump. Change, maybe, although he's usually good about cleaning out his pockets, and he reaches in and feels metal and pulls out Dean's amulet, on that old leather cord, the lump of it cool in his hand.

He stares at it. It's heavy. He forgot, how heavy. He rubs his thumb over the ugly little god-face, familiar as a totem, and there is a flash, memory rising like a headache-lash—holding it, just like this, shoving it into his pocket on the way to a hunt, Gwen saying _what's that?_ and saying back, _none of your business_ , cool and unfeeling. He closes his hand over it, the horns biting into his palm. He kept it. He hadn't—he'd just assumed it was gone, not even daring to hope. Before the cage there was months of carrying it around, trying to figure how to give it back to Dean—and he'd had it in his pocket, heavy as a rock, that day, at Stull. Looking down into Dean's broken face, thinking— _I can do this._ He never lost it. His palm aches, his grip sore.

Dean's still sleeping, on the bed. Sam looks at him. Bruised, on his shoulder, and on his thighs, and a purple mark on his chest, around his nipple, and his face—slack and soft, his sleep easy. Sam licks his lips, his knuckles aching, and finally opens his hand, looks down. Not today. Not—any day, soon, but. He kept it, and he'll keep it. He can imagine, now. The days going on, and getting warmer. Driving, and hunting, and Dean looking at him clear-eyed, and the past falling away until it hurts less, because it always hurts less, in the end. Maybe, then. One day.

He pulls on the clean-ish jeans, and an actually-clean undershirt, and a blue plaid flannel. The amulet he folds carefully, wrapping the cord around two fingers, and slips it into his right pocket. The weight feels right. Then he goes and sits on the bed, and pokes Dean in the ribs with two fingers, and gets him to wake up with a startled squawk. "Rise and shine, jerk," he says, and Dean glares at him, bleary. "You snore, you know."

" _You_ snore," Dean mumbles, dragging a hand down his face, and yawning. His morning breath is rank. Sam smiles at him, while he can't see. After a long stretch, Dean settles, and tucks a hand behind his head. "What's the plan, Stan?"

The bruise on his shoulder is dark, deep. Sam touches his chin, thumbs over his lip, and Dean blinks at him. "Breakfast, and then laundry. Then, on to Amarillo. See if anything's going down, there. Check in with Bobby. Usual stuff." Dean nods, and Sam flicks him in the chest. "First you're taking a shower, though, dude. You reek."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Oh, we're talking about who reeks, huh?" he says, sitting up, and Sam gets up, shaking his head, starts to repack his duffle. "This is from the all-time stank-ass fart champ of the Midwest, am I hearing this right?"

"Do as you're told," Sam says, mildly, and Dean rolls off the bed, naked, still bitching, and Sam swats his ass as he goes. The shower turns on, while Dean's saying _and let's not forget that burrito stand in Utah_ , and Sam sits down, drops his head onto his folded arms, smiling. Why is it, that he can't stop smiling. Well, maybe he'll get to the bottom of that, sometime. There's time.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/613883418730725376/for-cliche-porn-sam-dean-trying-like-a-247-ds)


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